


Make 'Em Laugh

by blithelybonny



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Career Goals, Coping Mechanisms, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Finding Purpose, Grief/Mourning, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Humor, M/M, Moving On, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Build, Stand Up Comedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-21 04:14:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14276676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blithelybonny/pseuds/blithelybonny
Summary: During eighth year, Harry tries to find a new purpose outside the mantle placed upon him, and Draco tries to find a way to process all that he's accountable for. Everyone handles change differently, but:'Sometimes,' Harry said, 'laughing's all you've got. And that's--''--that's okay,' Draco finished.





	Make 'Em Laugh

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to **eidheann** and **amorette** for beta'ing the first chapter of this (originally a shot at an Erised Fic I was going to write...). I'm posting it now as I'm trying to clear out my WIP folder in the hopes that it will be motivating.  <3
> 
> Feedback is appreciated, and if there's anything I haven't tagged for that I should, please let me know.
> 
> Characters and situations are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsberry/Scholastic. No infringement intended and no money is being made.

Draco Malfoy wrote his first set while under house arrest, after Harry Potter decided to visit him for no reason other than that he _felt like it_. And it was actually because almost every time he raised his hands, Potter exposed a strip of his taut lower belly, and Draco thought, somewhat hysterically, that having sex with Harry Potter would technically be considered necrophilia.

“Does it weird you out to think that you’re on people’s celebrity sex lists?” Draco asked, once he’d sufficiently shoved the necrophilia thought into the box in his head where he seemed to be collecting weird thoughts now that that he had all the time in the world to reflect on What He’d Done. (Or at least he had through the rest of the summer; part of his probation required his attendance at Hogwarts in the fall, and Draco imagined he’d be far too busy with schoolwork and trying to not get hexed into oblivion to focus too much on his colossal fuck-ups of the past two years.)

Potter blanched. “Their whats?”

“Celebrity sex lists,” Draco replied. “It’s that thing that couples have where they get a free pass should the opportunity arrive to shag a famous person. I bet you’re on literally everyone’s, to be honest.”

Potter opened his mouth, then closed it into a considering frown. The silence stretched just long enough for Draco to wish he'd shoved that thought into the box too instead of speaking it, when finally Potter chuckled and said, “Well, I suppose it rather beats being Undesirable Number One.”

They were sat across from one another in the most innocuous room Narcissa Malfoy could have chosen for them from amongst the rest of the horror-show that was Draco’s childhood home. The conservatory featured massive bay windows that opened out over the expansive grounds of Malfoy Manor but magically didn’t throw off the perfect acoustics, a set of squashy comfortable chairs, his mother’s concert harp, and a beautiful Steinway grand. The first awkward moment had come when Potter, obviously casting about for something inoffensive to say after the normal (or at least conventional, as nothing about Draco and Potter spending time together socially was _normal_ ) pleasantries had been exchanged, asked Draco if he played.

“Only with a wand to my head,” Draco replied unthinkingly, then froze. His eyes widened slowly, and internally, he screamed.

_Mind your tongue,_ Narcissa had said to him quietly, but sharply, as she’d ushered the pair of boys into the conservatory. She, too, had been on the receiving end of some of Draco’s odd thoughts over the last few weeks since the trials, and he had just nodded to hopefully assure her that he wouldn’t step in it. 

Potter was now of course reminded that Draco was the sort to use Unforgivable curses. Draco had put his wand to people’s heads and forced them to do things against their will. Draco was a disgusting monster who had done absolutely terrible things like almost murder Potter’s best friend with poisoned mead, and Potter was sitting there across from him right now, dunking a biscuit into a cup of milky tea, remembering that somewhere within the walls of this very Manor, Draco’s Aunt Bellatrix had tortured Potter’s other best friend and carved a slur into her arm that probably had scarred permanently because it was a magical blade.

It was another of the ridiculous thoughts, though, that Draco considered as heartbeats ticked away the fraught pause stretching between them, because Potter didn’t have to remember because there wasn’t a chance that he had forgotten. Potter’s mind was likely a steel trap of the myriad awful things that had happened over the last couple of years, and in particular, Draco’s starring role in many of them.

“Unclench, Malfoy,” Potter said, hiding what sounded like a smile behind his teacup.

Draco did, forcing himself to exhale the breath that had been caught behind his teeth. He gulped a bit of tea and then placed the cup on the small table between them. “I just meant,” he said, “that I can, but I don’t particularly like to play. I’m not very good at it.”

“I never really thought about it before,” Potter replied, “but it might be fun to learn.”

Draco nodded stiffly. “It’s certainly something to do.”

“Right.” Potter nodded back, then frowned down at his teacup.

Silence fell back over them, oppressive to the point that Draco very nearly shouted at Potter to end the torture and leave already, because clearly they had nothing more to say to one another. He still had no idea, though, why Potter’d even come over in the first place. He’d just suddenly been there at the gates, ringing the bell that alerted the Malfoys of guests, and requesting to be allowed through the wards against hostiles that surrounded the interior of the property. Draco’d put up the most token of protests when his mother admitted Potter (because he hadn’t seen Potter since the Battle of Hogwarts and was maddeningly curious) and settled in the seat of the large window at the front to watch Potter make the trudge up from the gates.

He’d been surprised to discover that he no longer hated Potter. Draco couldn’t be certain whether or not that translated to actually liking the man, but the passionate rage that rose up in him whenever he even thought about Harry Potter had settled into something softer. Begrudging gratitude seemed more accurate a feeling about him, as Potter’s written statements to the Wizengamot had kept Draco and his mother from having to serve an Azkaban sentence far more obviously than had the family attorney’s legal maneuverings. 

That he found Potter physically attractive was no surprise, though. Despite himself, Draco had always been able to admit that Potter looked damn good (with the exceptions of his knobby knees and patently ridiculous hair...although the latter had become sort of charming over the years and the former was something Potter could, at least potentially, grow into at some point). It had really just been Potter’s abysmal personality that had put Draco off of him, coupled with the culture of animosity that had edged in on them from that very first rejected handshake. 

Potter still looked good despite rather literally coming back from the dead, Draco observed once Potter was inside and standing awkwardly in the entrance hall. He was dressed in what Draco assumed was Mugglewear, a pair of slightly too large denim trousers and a slightly too short short-sleeved and collared shirt. He looked older and more settled somehow, which might have had something to do with his no longer having a murderous pseudo-dictator hanging over his shoulder.

It was a little infuriating even, Potter’s handsomeness; Draco wasn’t sure he’d rebounded nearly as well. The dark circles under his eyes seemed impervious to even the most expensive of moisturizers, and his pale skin looked almost translucent sometimes, in certain lights.

“Mr. Potter, you’re looking well,” Draco’s mother had said by way of greeting, and inadvertently adding insult to injury.

“You as well, Mrs. Malfoy,” Potter had replied, dipping his head. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“We could hardly turn you away,” she’d responded in a tone that Draco recognized well as a warning, before turning to Draco. “I’ve ordered tea to the conservatory for you.”

“Yes, Mother.” Draco then had turned to Potter, opened his mouth, but found absolutely nothing to say, and so instead had gestured for Potter to follow along after him.

Draco’d had about a hundred questions for Potter, not the least of which being _why are you here?_ , but he likely should have asked it the moment Potter walked through the door. It would have seemed awkward and out of place if he’d tried it on their walk, so he’d kept his mouth shut, despite the thoughts desperately trying to push themselves out from where they were trapped in his head.

Potter, too, for his part had seemed content with just following along to the conservatory like he hadn’t a care in the world. His expression was casual and calm, and when Draco had looked over and met his eyes once, Potter’s lips actually curved up in a small smile that might as well have been a punch through Draco’s sternum.

His awareness of Potter’s proximity was heightened so much that he felt almost like he’d been burned through his robes when Potter’s bare forearm casually had brushed against his own. It had taken the memory of his years of lessons in poise not to flinch from the contact. Sitting down across from Potter without snapping some off-the-cuff insult or blurting out some ridiculous question about Potter’s motives had been an exercise in self-control.

“So who’s on yours then?” Potter asked.

“On my what?” Draco replied, distracted with watching Potter lean forward to pour himself a second cup of tea. Potter’s disinclination to leave was as strange as his inclination to visit in the first place.

“Your celebrity sex list.”

Draco felt himself flush before he could even attempt to school himself, and to buy himself a bit of time, shrugged and looked out the window. The insufferable peacocks that Draco hated (and that hated Draco) could be seen wandering in a muster towards their feeding spot, and when Draco then glanced down at his watch, he noted that he and Potter had been sitting there chatting for over an hour now and, bafflingly, no hexes had been traded. But of course, Draco thought, that might have had more to do with the fact that Draco didn’t exactly have a _wand_ at the moment.

Draco had thought he might be able to get his wand back once the trials concluded and it technically stopped being evidence. Unfortunately, it also happened to be a valuable piece of history, and it seemed destined for a museum display in the near future. Draco had no idea of its current whereabouts, but a sudden suspicion roused in him. Frowning, he looked back at Potter. “Viktor Krum and Gethin Glaves,” he answered, eyes narrowing.

“Who’s Gethin Glaves?”

“Lead singer of The Cauldron Boys,” Draco replied quickly, then rushed to add, “Potter, do you know where my wand is?”

“Yeah,” Potter replied dismissively, then continued, with more interest, “Is Glaves the ginger one?”

“Of course not!” Draco answered, distracted enough by the very thought of finding a ginger attractive that he had to retort. “Glaves is the one who looks like what would happen if Blaise and what’s-he-called Goldstein had a child. Also known as possibly the most attractive person on this or any other planet, Potter, but let’s not change the subject here, you know where my wand is--”

“--oh, okay, yeah, the ‘bad boy’ one,” Potter interrupted, evidently having conjured up the image in his head. His smile went crooked and knowing. “With the messy black hair?”

“Right exactly-- wait, you-- oh shut up, you!” Draco jutted a finger out, practically wagging it in Potter’s face, as Potter just sat back and laughed at him. “He doesn’t look anything like you!”

“No, not at all,” Potter teased, waggling his eyebrows.

“He doesn’t!” Draco insisted. “For one thing, he has brown eyes, and for another his hair isn’t _messy_ , it’s _windswept_ , and for a third, he has an incredible singing voice and perfect rhythm, and for a fourth, _he doesn’t know where my wand is_ , but you do, Potter, and _that_ is what I’d like to talk about right now.” Draco was breathing a little heavily at the end of it, but well, _Potter knew where his wand was_!

“I’ve got a decent singing voice,” Potter said, not put off at all.

Witheringly, Draco said, “Then your career can be music instead of Auroring or whatever the hell you’re going to be doing. Although you’ll need rhythm too, and I know for a fact you haven’t got any worth speaking of.”

Potter shrugged. “That’s fair. Not much time for dancing.”

“So no music career for you then. Potter, please,” Draco said, the word almost tearing itself from his mouth, but if it would get Potter to answer him, Draco was willing to try, “where is my wand?”

Potter cocked his head, seeming to assess Draco seriously, and Draco hoped that his expression was appropriately contrite and curious, as opposed to desperate, which is what he feared he was showing. He wanted his wand, even if maybe he didn’t deserve it, and someone with Potter’s information and influence could possibly make it happen for him.

“I have it,” Potter then said, after a long moment, and drew it out of the pocket of those terrible jeans.

Draco’s mouth dropped open and again, like so many times before today, he had to shut it because he had no idea what to say.

“Good lord, your face!” Potter said, but Draco barely heard him.

He reached out across the table without a second thought and, miraculously, Potter didn’t stop him. He just handed Draco the wand, like it was nothing. Like Draco had just dropped it or something and Potter had picked it up for him. “Potter, I…” Draco managed hoarsely, as he turned it over in his hands and felt his magic racing through his body towards it, grounding him there in the chair.

“I’ve had it since, well...for a while. The Aurors returned it to me after the trials were over, and I don’t know, I just thought...well, I decided that I should give it back to you. It is yours, after all.”

“Yeah,” Draco breathed. “Yeah, it’s mine. It’s my wand.” He gripped it in his left hand then and swiftly pointed it toward the piano. “ _Wingardium Leviosa!_ ” And it took a moment, but the piano lifted from the ground and levitated there for several long moments until Draco carefully lowered it again. His arm shook, and his breath came fast again, but it felt exhilarating. 

“Maybe something a little less exerting next time,” Potter teased.

“It’s a first year spell, Potter,” Draco replied without heat.

“Still...s’been a while, hasn’t it?”

Draco’d made use of his mother’s wand of course, which Potter very well knew, but Draco understood what he meant anyway. He just nodded sharply in reply.

They sat in companionable silence for several minutes, Potter sipping at his tea and Draco doing basic magic just because he could. Then, unable to keep from smiling as his arm felt complete again for the first time in months, Draco said absently, “So it’s back down to two wands for you then.” But the comment caught up with him immediately, and he froze again. “I, er, that is--”

Potter cut him off with a bright laugh. “You’re sort of a perv, aren’t you?” he grinned.

“No!” Draco quickly asserted. But then, shrugging because in for a Knut, in for a Galleon, he added, “Why’s sex like a game of bridge?”

Potter cocked his head, his expression wry again. “Why?”

“Because if you’ve got a great hand, you don’t need a partner.”

Potter’s entire face scrunched up as he groaned, “Malfoy, that was _awful_!”

Draco rolled his lips inward to attempt to quell his answering smile. “Not one of my better jokes, no,” he murmured, as he slipped his wand into its place inside the left sleeve of his robes. He felt it brushing up against his skin with every slight move of his arm.

The normality of it was extraordinary to Draco, and it must have shone through on his face, just how happy he was, because when he looked back up at Potter, Potter’s smile was warm and understanding. “You’re welcome,” Potter said simply, with no smugness or condescension.

“Thank you,” Draco replied. He’d never thought he’d be on the receiving end of that look from Potter. He’d never thought Potter would look at him with anything other than contempt or pity. He wondered suddenly if this was even a little bit what it was like to be Potter’s friend. “Took you bloody long enough to give it back to me,” he added, letting himself drawl just a little bit.

Potter scoffed. “You’ll have to forgive me,” he said. “I was a bit busy.”

“Busy with my wand?” Draco raised a challenging eyebrow.

“Quite,” Potter replied.

“I did notice there weren’t any smudges. You must have given my wand a thorough polishing,” Draco said.

“I take it back, you're not just sort of pervy, Malfoy, you're a total pervert.”

“What’s your technique?” Draco continued, warming to his theme. “Firm grip and long even strokes with lots of oil?”

Potter’s laugh was full-bodied now, his face turning red as he clutched at his stomach. “Fucking hell, Malfoy, seriously?” he managed to choke out between guffaws.

Draco wasn’t entirely certain, but it might have been the best sound he’d ever heard. It was absolutely the best sound he’d heard in a long time, at any rate. “It’s a perfectly valid question, Potter,” he said, grinning cheekily at Potter. “You’ve obviously cared quite well for my wand since you unceremoniously stole it from me.” He winced then; he’d got carried away and forgot for a second that there were probably a hundred thousand things he wasn’t supposed to bring up and Potter winning away Draco’s wand was definitely one of them.

Potter’s expression sobered only enough to stop him laughing. He still looked across the small space between them with amusement, even though Draco’d clearly gone over the line of taste. “I did the best I could anyway, under the circumstances,” Potter said. “But it’s yours again...so two wands for each of us, I suppose.”

“Now who’s the pervert?” Draco replied, seizing the opportunity to avoid further awkwardness gratefully.

Potter smirked at him. “Still you.”

“Draco, your father will be returning from his afternoon ride soon,” came Narcissa’s voice suddenly from the doorway, almost, but not quite, jolting Draco out of his staring contest with Potter, “and I expect he’ll want to see you straight away.”

“Of course, Mother,” Draco said quietly, still not taking his eyes off of Potter’s face.

Potter’s lip was still curved up in that amused smirk, and Draco wondered if he looked as charming and rakish as Potter when he had the expression on his own face. Probably not, he thought, because he couldn’t remember a time when his smirk had been ‘amused’ as opposed to ‘arrogant.’ “I reckon that’s my cue to leave,” Potter said.

Despite the general confusion and slight awkwardness of the situation, Draco suddenly and fiercely felt like assuring Potter he needn’t rush off on his father’s account, because this whole exchange had been...nice. It had been nice in a way that Draco didn’t necessarily believe himself entitled to any longer. But rather than do something absurd, like invite Potter to stay for supper, Draco stood up and said, “I’ll walk you out.”

Potter nodded and then stood as well. He twisted at the waist, stretching out his back, and Draco’s attention was once again caught by the strip of skin that displayed itself. “Back’s been giving me hell lately if I sit too long,” Potter said.

Draco quickly wrenched his gaze up to meet Potter’s eyes and teased, “Fuck’s sake, Potter, you’re not even eighteen.”

“I feel a lot older sometimes,” Potter responded.

Sobering at that, Draco just nodded and then turned to lead Potter out of the conservatory and back to the entrance hall. As he passed his mother in the doorway, she merely leveled him with a look that he did his best to return with assurance that everything was fine. (Hell, she’d probably been listening at the door the entire time and was just admonishing him for making terrible jokes when he had no idea where he and his family stood with Potter.)

They made the walk back in silence again, but without the earlier tension on Draco’s part. It felt like walking along with Blaise or Pansy, the thought of which nearly stopped Draco in his tracks because he was obviously going off on a flight of fancy if he thought that anything about this was like what he shared with his friends.

“Malfoy, this was...well--” Potter cut himself off and reached a hand behind his head to rub at the back of his neck. “Thanks for letting me come here,” he finished quietly.

“Potter, why _did_ you come here?” Draco finally allowed himself to ask.

Potter shrugged and answered, “To return your wand.”

Draco shook his head. “No, that’s not why,” he asserted fiercely. “I mean, you could have just Owled my wand to me if that was the case. You didn’t have to show up at my home. You didn’t have to--” Draco cut himself off then and looked away, not wanting to put voice to the _see me ever again_ that seemed obvious. Because they weren’t friends, of course, Draco knew that. They might not have been enemies any longer, but they certainly weren’t friends. Draco didn’t even know if he wanted to befriend Potter anymore, if he was honest. He didn’t think about the ‘what-might-have-beens,’ the ‘if only he’d shaken my hand’ moments of their youth. Potter didn’t need him then, and he certainly didn’t need Draco now. Draco wasn’t even upset by it; it was just a fact that their lives had diverged long ago and, barring some massive change of heart or personality, their lives would remain so.

Or should have done. Because, despite all of it, despite the cruelty and the violence and the mistakes and the pain, Potter was here. Potter had come to the Manor to see Draco, and they’d shared tea and conversation, and it had all been mystifyingly pleasant.

Draco met Potter’s eyes again and asked, quietly, “So why, then?”

“Honestly?” Potter said. He rubbed a thumb over the back of his hand almost unconsciously, an unreadable smile playing at his lips. “Because I wanted to remind myself that this is just a house. Granted, an unnecessarily huge one for the three people rattling around inside it--”

Draco’s mouth dropped open to interject, but the quip died on his tongue as he took in the serious expression on Potter’s face.

“--but just a house nonetheless.” Potter paused again, and he sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “No reason to be afraid of somebody’s house, you know?”

His words prodded at something deep inside Draco, and suddenly, his throat tightened with feeling. He wanted to scream or possibly shake Potter because how dare he understand what it felt like? How dare he just look at Draco and _know_? And yet Draco also wanted to laugh because of course Potter would know. Draco knew the stories. He knew that Potter had been inside the Dark Lord’s head, had seen what the Dark Lord saw sometimes.

“Snake is a delicacy in Nigeria,” he blurted out. Potter tilted his head like a confused crup at the seeming _non sequitur_ and just stared at Draco until he continued. “We-- that is, Mother, Father and I-- we had snake for supper Father’s first night home from Azkaban. We sat around that table in the dining room, and we ate roasted fucking snake.”

A series of emotions flitted across Potter’s face in quick succession: what looked like confusion, then anger, then consideration and finally, something at least resembling amusement. Potter’s mouth was set in a line, but his eyes were bright and clear as he huffed out a scoffing little almost-laugh through his nose. “Seems appropriate somehow,” he then said.

“Tasted awful,” Draco replied.

“Might have been the location.” Potter smiled, but it was forced, like it was taking all of Potter’s legendarily bad impulse control not to snap, and Draco knew that it was probably time for Potter to go. They’d done remarkably well so far, and Draco had managed not to step in it too badly, had even managed to make Potter laugh once or twice, which wasn’t something he’d ever thought possible (or even something he’d wanted to do, really).

Draco held out his hand then, and Potter gripped it and shook it firmly. “Thank you for bringing me my wand, Potter,” Draco said. “Decent of you.”

“Least I could do,” Potter replied easily, and it was clear to Draco that he actually believed that to be true. Like Potter thought that there was more he should be doing to help Draco. Like possibly Potter _wanted_ to do more to help Draco.

(But that was absurd, wasn’t it? It was obviously another thought that belonged in the box.)

“You’re better-looking than an owl at any rate,” Draco then said, before he could overthink it too much.

Potter chuckled and rubbed over the back of his neck again, looking embarrassed. “Cheers, Malfoy,” he said, and Draco counted it as a win. Draco stepped back to watch, then, as Potter opened the front door, descended the steps, and started the long walk back to the front gates so that he could Disapparate.

“Oh sweetheart,” Narcissa said quietly.

Draco hadn’t even heard her walk up behind him. He flicked a glance at her briefly, then returned to watching Potter through the window. “Tell Father,” he said, after he’d gained control of his voice, “I’ll meet him in the study--”

“--you’re trembling,” Narcissa interrupted him. She wrapped her fingers around his wrist and tugged him down a bit so that she could press a soft kiss to the jut of his cheekbone. “He’s only a boy, Draco,” she added, barely above a whisper.

Draco kept his eyes on Potter’s retreating back. “I just don’t think that’s true, Mother,” he said, surprising even himself with his own conviction.

She chuckled a soft laugh, as she wrapped her arm around Draco’s waist. “He’s an ordinary boy who did an extraordinary thing once or twice,” she responded. “Although he did grow up to be quite handsome…”

“ _Mother_ ,” Draco warned, feeling himself flush again.

“I wonder if your father would allow me to put him on my celebrity sex list?”

Draco startled out of watching Potter go and let out a surprised laugh that swiftly became a groan of disgust. “There is so much about what you just said that’s disturbing, I cannot even parse through it,” he complained, rubbing his forehead vigorously, as if it could erase the mental image. He glanced back out the window, hysterically wondering if Potter had somehow heard her, but Potter’d reached the gates. Draco watched as he turned back towards the house once and, even though he likely couldn’t see Draco at the window anymore, raised his hand in a parting wave. Draco too, knowing that Potter likely couldn’t see him either, waved goodbye.

“What?” Narcissa then teased. “Just because I’m old enough to be his mother doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate that tight little bum--”

“--Merlin, Mummy, please stop!” 

“I’d wager that it’s very firm, like you could bounce a Sickle off it…”

“I am walking away from you now, Mother!” Draco groaned, tearing from her side and heading out of the entrance hall. The distinct sound of her laughter followed after him all the way to the staircase. And despite himself, Draco had to smile, as he sat down at the mahogany writing desk in his bedroom to spend the next two hours crafting a three-minute anecdote about his mother and father and Potter that Draco thought might actually make all three of them laugh, were they so inclined.


End file.
